


Like a Hawk

by 1creativeusernameplease



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton Has PTSD, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton is the dad friend, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Has Issues, Friendship, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Nightmares, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Tony Stark has PTSD, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23241499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1creativeusernameplease/pseuds/1creativeusernameplease
Summary: Clint Barton can't sleep so he distracts himself by trying to help his team sleep. Maybe he'll be able to help them all before he exhausts himself.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Clint Barton, Clint Barton & Avengers Team, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers, Clint Barton & Thor, Clint Barton & Tony Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	1. Natasha

Clint gasped awake, a cry dying in his throat. Sweat covered his body like a blanket and his trembling fingers uncurled from their death grip on the sheets. He tried to slow his breathing as he sat up against the headboard of his bed and tried to force his coiled muscles into relaxation.

He realized there was no light in the room as his eyes roamed his surroundings, the shadows acting as a blank screen on which his nightmares were projected: the flash of Loki’s malicious grin, Coulson’s blood staining his hands. Natasha’s sightless gaze following him as he retrieved the arrow from her chest. 

“JARVIS, lights!” His voice came out hoarse and desperate and he felt a pang of shame for its unevenness. The A.I. flooded the room in a warm glow, illuminating the stark white walls, the modern furniture. What his room lacked in homeliness, it made up for with the help of Tony’s A.I. After three weeks, Clint still wasn’t fully trusting of the thing, but he enjoyed its accessibility. 

With shaking hands, he got up from the bed and put on a fresh shirt and noticed that the lights were subtly getting brighter. The room’s ceiling fan also had turned on by itself. Clint stopped in the middle of pulling on his boots and addressed the ceiling. 

“Do you make those decisions or is the room already programmed like that?” he asked.

A second later, the accented voice replied. “I decide what the most efficient and pleasant actions are for an individual. I did not want to harm your eyes with full brightness and your body temperature was raised, hence the fan. I can take instructions for future events if this is not to your liking.” 

Clint raised his eyebrows with appreciation, although he was admittedly a little unsettled by the observations. “Impressive. What else can you detect?”

“I am aware of everything that happens inside this building and more. A security guard in the lobby has his arms stuck in a vending machine, Linda from marketing fell asleep at her desk, Mr. Stark is working in his lab, and Agent Romanoff is exhibiting much of the same symptoms of a poor night’s rest as you were moments ago.”

Clint tightened his shoelace with a jerk of surprise. “What? You can tell when someone’s having a nightmare?”

If JARVIS had a physical body, Clint was sure he would have made an affronted expression. “Of course. Excessive perspiration, increased heart rate, erratic muscle movement-”

“Yeah, alright, I get it.” Clint was already halfway to the door. 

“Would you like me to wake her, Agent Ba-”

“No!” 

Natasha should always have someone she trusts when she wakes up. There’s no telling how intense her nightmares can be. Clint had tried in the past to make some sense of the spikes. It didn’t seem to matter if it was right after a mission or if she had been reminded of her past that same day. Sometimes she got them after two weeks of doing nothing but waiting for the next mission. It was completely random which irritated Clint to no end. He couldn’t help her if he didn’t know when they’d occur. 

The hallway’s lights were dimmed for the night but he still made it to Natasha’s door in record time. 

“JARVIS,” he hissed. The A.I. unlocked the door with a click. Clint sped in silently and passed the ensuite kitchen to the bed by the window. His friend was curled up into a ball like she always was, breath hitching quietly, eyes racing underneath their lids. JARVIS didn’t say a word but brightened the room by a lumen. Clint knelt next to the side of her bed and laid a hand lightly on her forearm. Her eyes snapped open and a fist came flying at the archer. Clint trapped her wrist and pushed her fist away, missing his face by a hair. 

“It’s me,” he said gently. Natasha did not relax immediately and Clint took that as a bad sign. Must have been a bad one. She blinked a few times and Clint guided her arm to rest on the mattress. Slowly, her body uncoiled as she stretched her legs and laid her back flat on the sheets. He released her arms and she stared at the ceiling. A shudder ran through her body and a tear leaked out the corner of her eye. Clint waited. She always took a second before…

Natasha’s face hardened and she sat up slowly. 

“Do you want to change?” He asked. She was wearing black yoga pants and a tank top. She shook her head.

“You?” Her voice came out as a dry whisper.

He looked down at himself: sweat pants and a fresh white T-shirt. “Naw, I’m good.” He held out a hand as he rose to stand next to her bed. She took it, stepped onto the floor and let go. They walked in silence down the hall, up the stairs, and into the gym. Clint took off his boots and socks at the edge of the sparring mat. They both stretched for a few moments, the archer never taking his eyes off his friend while Natasha looked at her hands. 

“You good?” he asked when they both stepped onto the mat. Natasha sniffed dismissively and said nothing. Clint winced internally. He was in for a rough night. Still, he raised his open hands in front of his face and leveled his gaze on the Black Widow. She bounced twice on her toes and clenched her fists and met his gaze. Her eyes were dull and distant, as if she were far away, in another place, fighting another enemy. 

_ Shit, this was going to hurt _ . 

He managed to block the first five punches and dodge the sixth but it was only a matter of time before -  _ Yeah, ow. That hurt. Not pulling any punches today I see _ . 

He landed a kick on her right side and she landed a blow to his liver. The archer grunted and sweat started to shine on his face. Natasha’s eyes were still far away but there was more life to them now. Clint supposed that was the adrenaline. He came at her again and she blocked his jab but not the hook. He let a little force fall out of it when he realized she wasn’t going to get there in time, his fist connecting with her jaw a little softer than it could have been. 

When her head snapped back to face him her eyes were angry. 

“Is that all you got, Barton?” she growled. Quick as lightning she jabbed him in the neck and rolled behind him to kick him in the back. He went flying forward still trying to scrape air into is windpipe. She mercifully gave him a second to catch his breath. 

“Was that,” he rasped, “really necessary?” He rubbed his neck and pouted. 

“It is when you’re pulling your punches.” She scowled at him but her voice had become a little lighter. 

Clint shook out his fists. “Fine,” he said, his voice still sounding like he had something stuck in his throat. “If that’s how you-” 

Natasha didn’t let him finish and he spent the next two minutes trying to block her attacks. Slowly, the dullness seeped away from her eyes and a small smile crept to her lips. They danced around each other, their blows becoming softer, slower. Clint swatted away a front kick, caught a wrist in one hand and slipped away from a punch to the face. They stilled for a moment, looking at each other, and caught their breath. Then out of nowhere, Nat raised her arm for an attack. 

Clint missed his block and braced himself for a punch, but instead heard the crack of skin against skin before reeling away as a firey sting spread across his cheek. 

His eyes widened in surprise. “Did you just  _ slap me _ ?” 

Natasha giggled. 

Clint’s hand went to his cheek like he couldn’t believe what just happened. “Are you serious?”

The Black Widow cracked up, doubling over with laughter. 

“I - how dare you!” His eyebrows coming together at the indignity. “Do you have any idea how demeaning that is?”

Natasha’s laughter died down. “Sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry. “It seemed funny.”

Clint sighed loudly. He watched her grin and walk toward the water fountains. At least she was feeling better. That’s what all this was. He didn’t have to get beat up all the time, but that’s what helped her. Whatever terrible things that went on in her dreams were dampened when they sparred so that’s what he did. 

Natasha came back with an ice pack. He took it, making a show of how grumpy he was, and pressed it to his face. It felt good. 

“JARVIS, what time is it?” he called to the ceiling. 

“It is 2:26 am, Agent Barton.”

The spies looked at each other and came to an agreement. There was still time left to try and sleep. Neither of them would but they didn’t need the other knowing. They walked back to their rooms, departing with a short ‘good night.’”

When he closed the door, Clint pressed his back to the wood and closed his eyes. His body ached and his own nightmares may have been stayed by the distraction of helping Nat, but he wasn’t going to sleep. He exhaled. 

But that was fine because his friend was better now. He’d gotten there early. He’d been there so she couldn’t hide it from him like she sometimes tried to. 

Clint stepped into the light of his room. 

“JARVIS?”

“Yes, Agent Barton?” he replied, the voice resounding through his room. 

Clint fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, rolling something over in his mind. “Do you think… could you maybe let me know when Natasha’s having a nightmare?”

“Of course,” JARVIS said. “I can address you myself or I can send a notification to your phone.”

Clint nodded. This could work. “Whichever you think is best. Like, if I’m sleeping I might not hear my phone.” Clint waited for a moment, it was almost like JARVIS was thinking.

“You wish me to wake you if one occurs while you are asleep?” The A.I. sounded unsure. Clint supposed that years of taking care of Tony Stark, a famous insomniac, he knew the value of a good night’s rest. 

“Yes.”

“Very well, Agent Barton.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

“Agent Barton.”

Clint’s eyes snapped open. He had just been dozing in his room. “Yeah?”

“You’ve got a code black in Agent Natasha’s quarters,” JARVIS said.

Clint climbed out of bed and jogged down the hall to her room. JARVIS already had the door unlocked and the lights ticked up enough to see. He quietly approached her bed.

She was crying in her sleep, the shimmering tracks running over the bridge of her nose and pooling into the mattress under her cheek. The sheets were clenched in her twitching fingers. He knelt beside her bed like all the times before and laid a hand on her arm. He dodged her punch when she gasped awake.

“It’s me,” he whispered just like he always did. She looked into his eyes for a moment, not quite seeing him, but something else. A shudder went through her body. He started to take his hand away from her arm to give her a moment but she snapped her fingers over his before he could retreat. 

_ Oh. It was one of those dreams, then. _

Clint had thought this dream had been lessening. She had dreamed it almost constantly when they had first started working as a team. Now, she didn’t seem to think about it as much. It had been five months since the last one. 

Slowly, he took the hand wrapped around his own and brought it to his chest over his heart. His heartbeat pushed against her palm in reassurance. It had just been a dream. The Redroom had not taken her mind. She was in control. She had  _ not _ killed him. 

Still, his friend trembled. 

The archer took deep, calming breaths and she tried to match them. Clint hated these nights. He felt partly responsible, even though he knew deep down that that was foolish. Nonetheless, he despised being the subject of her terrors. 

Natasha’s eyes wandered his face blankly. 

“Hey,” Clint soothed, his voice barely above a whisper, yet the sound seemed to resound throughout the entire room. “You’re alright. I’m okay. Just a dream, darling. Nothin’ but a dream.” His words were continuous and pacifying. He didn’t try to say anything profound or meaningful as it was usually just the tone of his voice that got the message across. 

He smoothed the hair at her temples gently. “Just a dream. Nothing to hurt you. You’re safe. I’m safe. It’s all over.” 

Slowly, the assassin’s eyes gained some clarity. She focused her gaze on his own as his fingers traced small designs on her shoulder. Clint held her gaze. He could see her guilt and shame written behind her eyes and his heart broke a little for her. 

He tried to console her more. “Hey now. No sense in blaming yourself for something you didn’t even do, hmm?” Her eyes were wet but no more tears fell. 

The assassin licked her lips. “You trust me too much.” She always said something to that effect after one of these dreams.

Clint shook his head. “No. I trust you just enough. Which just so happens to be a lot.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“Nat,” he dispraised, “I trust you with everything, including my life.” He searched her face. She was quiet for a long time. When she spoke, he could barely hear her. 

“You always look me in the eyes in my dreams.”

Clint’s fingers stilled on her arm. She didn’t often talk about them, and certainly not the ones where he is killed. 

She looked away from his eyes. “I tell you to look away but you never do.” Her eyes found his again and his chest tightened when he still found guilt there. 

He pressed her hand harder into his chest. “I’m not dead and you did not kill me. And you know what?” He waited with his eyebrows raised. 

She narrowed her eyes. He cocked his head, the smallest of smirks on his lips. 

“What?” she growled. 

“You never will.”

She let out a short breath and Clint couldn’t tell if it was exasperation or relief. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

He gathered her in his arms and lifted her easily from the bed. She was so small like this. Her hand still pressed against his chest as he carried her out of her room and down the hall to the couch in the communal area. Gently, he sat her down on the leather. Her hand left its’ place as he grabbed the soft blanket thrown over the back of the couch and wrapped it around her. He sat down next to her and gave her his wrist. She held it, fingers clutching at the pulse point. 

“What do you wanna watch?” he asked softly.

The Black Widow drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Phineas and Ferb.”

Clint’s lips curved upward slightly. He turned on the T.V. and set the volume low. They sat together and watched cartoons for the rest of the night. Natasha did not let him go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter is for Nat because their relationship is easiest to write about. I took some liberties with Nat's backstory because the film version isn't too specific. Well, maybe we'll find out more when the movie comes out.
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments. I love reading them. :)


	2. Bruce

Clint took a bite of his sandwich and hummed appreciatively. The archer knew all too well to enjoy a good meal when one had the opportunity. He was on the communal floor in the heart of Avengers tower. Steve and Thor were having a conversation at the bar while Clint sat on the couch a little ways away. Tony was making coffee in the kitchen. 

It was rare to have so many people in the same room at once. Clint realized they all lead very different lives and were unlikely to always spend time together. Still, saving the world a couple of times can only bring people together.

In any case, Clint was glad for the company, even if he wasn’t a part of the gathering. He liked to observe how people interacted with each other. A hobby that had saved his life a few times over when he was working now served as more of an alleviation to his curiosity. He knew many things about his teammates but not nearly enough to feel like he could trust them with everything. Spy habits died hard he guessed. 

Bruce entered the floor through the elevator. He nodded pleasantly in greeting to Clint as he passed and the archer made a toasting motion with his sandwich. Bruce smirked and shook his head and headed to the kitchen, no doubt to make some tea. Bruce liked tea. 

Sure enough, the doctor started filling up the kettle with water as soon as he arrived. He moved with deliberate carefulness throughout the kitchen, something he did everywhere, Clint noticed. Bruce moved just a little bit slower than everyone else, always methodical and patient. Clint wondered if he had been that way before the accident or if it was behavior he adopted to try and prevent an outburst. 

Tony finished preparing the coffee machine. “Hey, Doc. Whatcha up to?”

Bruce smiled slightly. “I’m writing my thesis on the spacial deconstructive properties of the Tesseract,” he said quietly. The billionaire raised his eyebrow. “I know it probably won’t be published anytime soon with the … classified nature of the subject matter, but it’s something to keep me busy.” 

_ To distract me _ was probably a better description of his activities, Clint supposed, but Bruce liked to pretend that destroying the Hulk wasn’t an ever-present obsession. 

“Sounds exciting,” Tony said with a wink. He saw through him too, then. Bruce turned back to the cupboard for the tea bags. The other man got two mugs out for himself and his friend. He set them on the edge of the countertop and went to grab the coffee pot. On his way, he nudged one of the mugs a little too far over the edge of and it fell to the floor with a crash. 

Bruce, still facing the cupboard, flinched, back straightening, hands coming up in front of his chest. He turned to see the source of the sound and quickly tried to relax his body to nearly no avail. From Clint’s vantage point he saw everyone else in the room glance at Bruce, too. Even Steve and Thor were checking to see if Bruce was alright. An awkward moment hung in the room where no one moved.

“My bad,” said Tony. 

“I’ll get a broom,” offered Steve, ever the legman. 

Tony took a step over the shattered remains of his mug. “Sorry, Bruce. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He clapped a hand onto the other’s shoulder and rubbed his back comfortingly. 

Bruce looked startled at the contact but it was only for a moment. The tension seemed to melt out of his shoulders, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. 

Then Steve came back with the broom and Tony pulled his hand away to clean up the mess. Bruce’s hand came up halfway to his shoulder where Tony’s hand had been and then seemed to realize himself. He quickly busied himself with pouring the now steaming water into an unbroken mug. 

_ Interesting,  _ Clint thought to himself and slotted the information away for later. He recognized that look. He’d worn it a few times himself. He didn’t like to see it on anyone else. 

“Thanks, Cap.” Tony threw away the pieces in the trashcan and grabbed a new mug. 

“No problem.” He looked to Thor. “I’m probably gonna go for a run. Care to join me?”

The thunder god stroked his beard. “Hmm. I’m not usually a runner, but I suppose it can’t hurt.”

Steve nodded. “Great, I’ll meet you in the lobby in five.” He said a few parting words to the rest of the Avengers and went to the stairwell to prepare for his workout. Clint could only guess how far they’d be going, being a supersoldier and a god and all that. Thor left swiftly behind him. 

Tony, now with a full cup of coffee. “Alright, ‘twas lovely to see you all, but I must return to work.” He left the room whistling a working song. 

From the couch, Clint brushed the crumbs from his fingers. He wanted to test something out, but he didn’t know the best way to go about doing it. The spy went through a couple of different scenarios in his head and settled on the drunken tactic. He got up off the couch unsteadily and stumbled over to the countertop.

“How’re you doing?” Clint slurred cocking his head lazily to the side. Brue turned and looked him up and down. Up close Clint could see the fatigue in his face, the dark circles under his eyes. 

“I’m okay,” he said a hint of concern gracing his features. “How are you?”

Clint blinked slowly and shrugged. “Ah… you know… livin’ that Avengers life, you know?”

Bruce checked the time. “A little early to be drinking, don’t you think?”

_ Got him, _ Clint thought. 

“Who said I was drunk? ‘M not drunk.” Clint did his best to hobble his way over to the other side of the counter and position himself in front of the doctor while maintaining his act. 

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, okay.” He turned and opened the cupboard behind him. “Let me get you a glass of water and then we can get you to bed okay?” He filled it from the sink and held it out to Clint.

The archer took it ungracefully, but that was exactly the opportunity he had been looking for. He took a sip, set the cup down, and said, “Thanks, man.”

He surged forward, faster than he could have if he was really intoxicated and enveloped him in a hug. He felt him tense underneath him, but it was only temporary. After a second Clint felt the other man’s body relax. His shoulders slumped from their normal rigid bearing and he exhaled slowly through his nose. His chin came to rest on Clint’s shoulder as his arms reciprocated the hug. 

“You’re a really good friend, man,” Clint muttered and rubbed his back to show his appreciation. He felt Bruce shiver. 

_ Oh, yeah. This guy needs more hugs,  _ he thought. He held on a little longer because he knew Bruce needed it, but he didn’t want his ruse to be discovered. He started to pull back and Bruce let go of him and stepped away quickly. His shoulders went back to their usual hunched rigidness and he cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“I can make it to my room, Doc,” Clint said waving his hand dismissively. 

“Don’t forget your water,” Bruce replied. Clint grabbed the cup and swayed a little on his way out of the common room for effect. Once he was clear, he adopted his normal gate and tried to formulate a plan. Clearly, Bruce needed some physical contact. He probably hadn’t gotten a lot of friendly touches throughout the last decade. So much so that a pat on the shoulder almost made him smile. He needed someone to hug at least. Clint was absolutely willing to volunteer he just didn’t want to scare him off. He couldn’t just pretend to be drunk all the time. 

_ Well…  _ He thought.  _ No. Probably not.  _

He just had to start off slow, careful touches that weren’t too invasive so that he didn’t notice. 

_ How do you hug someone sneakily?  _

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

During the next few weeks, Clint put his plan to work. He thought of every conceivable way to get Bruce used to touching him and then implemented it. He started off slow, handshakes and occasional brushes when he walked past him. Next, he would pretend to brush something off of his shoulders or nudge him affably when he told a joke. By the fourth week, Clint had graduated to throwing his arm around the other man’s shoulders when they were sitting on the couch. To Clint’s immense delight, Bruce didn’t shy away from him. In fact, he seemed to be relaxing. Still, his eyes still carried dark circles and he was up at all hours of the night. 

By week five, Clint thought he’d try something he knew was a little risky. 

He saw Bruce on the couch with a Stark pad in his lap, scrolling through some data. Clint waved to him on his way to the coffee pot. 

Bruce smiled at him. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” Clint took out the coffee grounds. “You want some? I know I like mine a little stronger than most.” He turned to look at him.

Bruce shrugged. “No thank you.”

Clint nodded and resumed his morning ritual. When it started brewing he came up behind the doctor and peered over his shoulder. 

“What’re you lookin’ at, Doc?”

“Just the news,” he said, scrolling through a list of stories. Clint didn’t say anything. It was now or never. 

“Your hair’s getting a little long,” he said. He reached out and touched the curls at the base of his neck. Bruce shivered but didn’t pull away. “I could cut it for you. I’m pretty good,” Clint continued, his fingers still running across his scalp.

Bruce turned off his Stark pad and sighed. He turned to the archer and Clint let his hand fall away. 

“I know what you’re doing.”

Clint raised his eyebrows in question.

Bruce’s face reddened. “I know… you’re trying to…” He cleared his throat. “I’m trying to say you don’t need to. You can stop.” He wouldn’t look Clint in the eyes, his fingers fidgeted on the seam of a couch cushion. 

_ Damn.  _

Clint thought he’d been doing well, but he clearly wasn’t as subtle as he thought. He’d gone too far with the head scratch. He should have known. Just because he personally liked it didn’t mean everybody did. He thought about denying everything but Bruce clearly had him all figured out. He sighed.  _ Well, maybe not all the way.  _ Bruce thought Clint was touching him out of some sort of obligation it seemed. He couldn’t let him believe that. And he wasn’t going to let getting discovered get in the way of all the progress he’d made. 

Clint jumped over the back of the couch so he could sit next to his teammate. He sighed again as he studied him. 

“Bruce,” he started. He could be direct when he wanted to. “Who was the last person that hugged you besides me?”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “I - that’s not -”

“Bruce.”

The man looked away from Clint and turned his gaze down at his hands. When he spoke he was quiet. “It’s been a while.”

Clint considered him for a second. “Do you not like being touched?” He knew he did. He’d seen the look on his face whenever he purposefully put a hand on his shoulder. He was just curious about what he would say. 

“No, it’s not that,” Bruce said, his eyebrows coming together. “I mean - I appreciate - I just want you to know you don’t have to be the one that does this. It’s not your job. I don’t want to burden you.” He looked so uncomfortable that Clint wanted to end the conversation for him, just to put him out of his misery. 

He reached out and gripped the other man’s shoulder. Bruce raised his eyebrows but just like all the times before the tension melted out of his figure. 

“Bruce, you’re not a burden to me. You’re my friend.” Bruce didn’t look convinced. “Plus,” Clint grinned, “I like hugs, too.” 

Bruce’s lips twitched. Clint remembered a long stretch of his life where the only human contact he received hurt. Bruce didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. He just wanted him to be comfortable.

“So,” Clint patted his knee for emphasis. “No head touching. Got it.” Bruce readjusted his glasses nervously. Clint ducked his head down and looked up at him and tried to be as nonthreatening as possible. 

“Tell me what you like, Bruce.”

Bruce snapped his head up, his eyes widened. He had not been expecting that.

“I, um, I don’t mind you touching my head actually, um, I just… I like hugs too. ” He swallowed.

Clint looked at him curiously. “Anything else I should know?”

Bruce’s face turned an even deeper shade of crimson. At least Clint knew he had a functioning circulatory system. 

“Well, um, I like…” He looked around like he could believe he was about to say. Honestly, Clint could hardly believe it either. He hadn’t thought he’d be willing to open up this much. Maybe he was just too used to Natasha. 

Bruce exhaled forcefully almost in frustration. “Give me your hand.”

Clint raised an eyebrow but complied. Bruce took his hand and held it so the palm faced upward. Slowly, Bruce traced lines along his palm with his fingers. The touch was soft, delicate, but constant. It felt nice. Clint could see why Bruce liked it. Bruce released his hand after a few moments. His eyes glistened as he pushed up his glasses again. 

“My - my mom used to do that,” he explained, voice cracking as he spoke. 

Clint smiled sadly at him and reached out tentatively. “Can I?”

Bruce held out his hand. Clint took it and tried to copy Bruce’s actions. 

“That okay?” Clint asked softly, glancing up from his hand to make sure he was doing it the way he wanted. 

“Yeah,” Bruce whispered. He leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes. His head tilted back to rest on the back of the couch. Clint smiled. Today had gone way better than he had planned. 

_ That almost never happened _ . 

He was just glad he could finally be there for his friend. A warm maudlin feeling seeped into his chest. He could get used to this.

He refocused on the scientist’s hand in his own. They were soft and unmarked; so unlike his own. Clint’s fingers were calloused and rough. His knuckles were scarred and nearly all of his fingernails were rippled from assorted injuries over the years. His hands were a sign of his occupation, a profession of violence. Bruce’s hands showed none of his trauma. The hulk hid it all away. He wondered if it was better that way. 

He looked back up to Bruce’s face and smiled. His mouth had fallen open slightly and the worry lines in his face had vanished. He was sound asleep. Clint gently put his hand down beside him and got crept off of the couch. Gently, he slid the glasses from the other man’s face and placed them on the coffee table in front of him. He padded out of the common room as stealthily as if he were on an assignment. Once he was in his own rooms he addressed the open air. 

“Hey, JARVIS?”

“Yes, Agent Barton?”

“Could you make sure anyone coming through the common room knows that Bruce is sleeping right now. He kind of needs it and I don’t really want anyone to wake him.”

“I will make sure everyone is aware,” the A.I. replied smoothly. 

Clint grabbed his bow and quiver out of reflex, still lost in thought about the day’s turn of events. He was wondering if Bruce just fell asleep that easily or if he had just been that tired. He was so absorbed that he nearly jumped when JARVIS spoke again. 

“You would do well to get some rest yourself, Agent Barton.”

Clint gripped his bow tighter and moved to the door. He would take a nap later. 

“Gotta practice first.” 

There was never enough practice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce got some hugs! Yay! :)
> 
> Clint's such a dad friend in this.
> 
> I tried to make this as cuddly as possible while still seeming like it wasn't too OOC. Clint needed some hugs too. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments. I love reading them. :)


	3. Steve

Clint closed Bruce’s door with a small smile on his face and stepped out into the hallway. He was really glad Bruce had opened up to him a few weeks ago. Now, whenever Bruce couldn’t sleep, he texted Clint and he would be there. He was looking better rested already. And, to Clint’s great satisfaction, the other Avengers seemed to have caught on to the whole “Bruce needs hugs” thing purely by unconsciously observing Clint and had begun initiating contact themselves. He had barely contained his grin when Tony had hugged Bruce the other night.

He looked down and checked his watch. A quarter after one. He frowned. He didn’t feel like sleeping. He stifled a yawn as he headed to the gym. As he entered, he told JARVIS to keep the lights off. 

He loved the gym in the Tower. It was two stories high and encompassed the entire floor. There were free weights, machines, a boxing ring, punching bags and dummies, two sparring platforms, and a track that ran around the entire room. Clint’s favorite part had to be the ceiling, though. The ceiling had iron truss rafters where Clint had installed a very nice hammock. About halfway up the wall, the windows started. They were continuous and went all the way around the room. Clint got the best view in the city from the comfort of his own hammock. 

Clint went to the climbing rope and began his ascension. Once he was up on the rafters, he jumped to his sanctuary and settled in. Clint looked out at the city before him. He liked it better at night, with all the lights reflecting off of each other. He would have preferred stars but he would take what he could get out here in the city. 

Clint didn’t know how long he stared out the window, but his eyes were beginning to droop when the lights were flicked on. He peered over the edge of his hammock to see the one and only Captain America. Clint checked his watch. Three in the morning was a hell of a time for a workout but Clint was one to judge. Steve was probably suffering from the same insomnia as the rest of them. 

He watched as the other man walked over to the punching bag and wrapped his hands methodically. Clint shifted in his perch. He had only ever seen Steve fight bad guys in the streets during the Battle of New York or on some secluded base. He’d never seen him train to fight before. There was a part of him that had believed he had just come by it naturally, like Thor and his lightning powers. Maybe the super-soldier serum had also infused his brain with knowledge of all kinds of martial arts moves like in  _ The Matrix.  _ Clint dismissed the idea as Steve started on the punching bag. He probably had to learn just like everybody else, and probably much faster, too. 

Steve was merciless in his attack on the punching bag. His fists flew at inhuman speed, each blow landing roughly on the leather bag. Clint winced at the thought of being struck by that much force. As the attacks wore on, Steve started breathing heavily. Short, clipped exhaled breaths escaped him with each blow. Then, with a strangled cry, Steve punched the bag off of its tether, sending it across the room. Steve’s arms came up around his head as if he were protecting himself from some unseen enemy and he stumbled toward the wall. He leaned against it facing away from Clint. Clint knew something was wrong when his breathing got worse. Instead of slowing down and evening out, it was ragged and strained like he wasn’t getting enough air. 

It became suddenly very clear to Clint that Steve was not okay. 

Clint was already in the process of untangling himself from the hammock when Steve punched the wall, or more accurately, punched a hole in the wall. The archer leaped at the climbing rope and he swung dangerously. His hands stung, the rope chafing his skin as he slid down. When he was halfway down he let go and rolled out of the impact. He sprinted over to where the supersoldier had sunk to his hands and knees. 

He stopped short about a foot in front of him. “Steve?”

The man made no indication of acknowledging him. Instead, he promptly vomited all over the floor. 

_ Shit, okay. A very serious panic attack, then.  _

Clint crouched beside him, carefully avoiding the sick on the floor. “Steve.” He touched his arm gently. Steve turned his head toward him. His eyes were unfocused but there was a glimmer of recognition in them. “Hey,” Clint smiled soothingly. “You’re okay. What do you need?”

Steve stared at him for a moment and then shook his head slowly as if saying he didn’t need anything. He was still breathing heavily, making little choking sounds every now and then. 

“Do you wanna back up a little bit so you don’t get puke all over you?” Clint asked. He applied a little pressure on his shoulder to guide him away from the vomit. 

Slowly, Steve maneuvered himself so that he was sitting back against the wall, farther back from the mess on the floor. 

“That’s great. You did so well,” Clint praised softly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder. “Steve, I want you to try and match your breathing with me, okay?” He waited until Steve nodded back before he breathed deeply in through his nose and out of his mouth. It only took five repetitions before Steve had matched him. 

“Good, good.” Clint searched his face. His eyes were clearer if not a little wet. “You feeling better?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He didn’t open them again for a long time. Clint waited. He could wait for hours if he needed to. He was a sniper after all. 

When he opened his eyes again, he seemed almost surprised that Clint was still there. He looked around and winced when his gaze fell on the floor next to him. 

“I’ll clean that up,” he assured. 

Clint shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

Steve sighed and put his head in his hands. Clint noticed a red spot on the knuckles of his wrapped hand. “You want me to take a look at that hand?”

Steve looked at his hand in confusion, then his eyes widened and he spun his head to look at the damaged he’d wreaked on the wall. 

“Shit. I didn’t mean -” He looked back at Clint. “Do you think Tony’ll be mad?”

“Naw, we’ll just put a picture over it.”

Steve looked down at his hands in shame. He began unwrapping them with the same methodical movements as he had put them on. Clint wondered how many times he’d done it. 

When they were off, he examined his hand. The skin had split in two places, but the blood had already started to congeal. 

“It’ll be healed by tonight,” Steve said. Clint marveled at how fast the serum worked. He wouldn’t mind having accelerated healing, especially considering his almost comical bad luck. 

“You punch a lot of walls, then?” Clint asked quietly.

Steve stiffened. He shook his head. 

“Do you want to talk about what just happened?”

Steve sighed again. “I was just… thinking and I got a little overwhelmed.”

Clint nodded. He had figured as much. What he had been thinking about, though, was anyone’s guess. Steve was a private person so Clint didn’t have a lot of information on him. He knew what was in his file from SHIELD of course, but Clint knew better than anyone to take their analyses with a grain of salt. Clint could think of a number of things that could trigger Steve’s panic attack. For one, he was a WWII veteran. He had to have some kind of trauma from that. He also practically died. And then he came back and everything he knew was gone. 

Whatever issues Steve was working through, they were anything but simple. 

Steve was scowling at his busted knuckles. He looked up to make eye contact with Clint. The archer raised his eyebrows expectantly. Steve pursed his lips. Clint waited. 

“Everything has changed,” he finally said. “But nothing has.” He paused. “Before I went under, I fought, and I lost, and I bled to protect what I thought was right. Good men,  _ my friends _ … they  _ died _ to beat the evil in the world. I fought so that others didn’t have to. So that everyone could go home at the end of the day and be happy and safe. And then I wake up and -” He broke off, blinking rapidly. “And I have to fight some more. ‘Cause the war’s not over it just got bigger. And then the one thing I thought I beat, the one thing I thought I had controlled… After all that work, and all those lives lost.  _ Hydra’s still out there. _ It never fucking left. It’s like all of it was for nothing,” he finished, his voice cracking. He sniffed and covered his eyes with his hand. 

Clint leaned against the wall and gripped the other man’s shoulder. 

“I think you’re wrong,” Clint said, matter of factly. Steve didn’t move so Clint continued on. “You saved so many people. It wasn’t all for nothing. Think of how many people got to go home at the end of the day because you saved them.”

“But Hydra-” Steve mumbled. Clint threw his hands in the air. 

“So there are still some Nazis in the world,” Clint said like his own world didn’t fall out from under him the day SHIELD fell. “We’ll deal with them just like we deal with everyone else.”

Steve slammed his hand down and glared at Clint ferociously. “What if I don’t want to deal with it!”

Clint held his gaze until Steve looked away. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that,” Steve said. 

“Didn’t mean to yell or didn’t mean what you said?”

Steve took a moment to answer. “Both.” Clint again rested his hand on his shoulder. “I’m happy to do this. I mean, who else is gonna punch their way out of a terrorist base?” Steve sighed. He looked a little defeated. “It just seems like that’s all I’m good for sometimes.”

Clint nodded. “I can relate. But what else is out there for a circus freak with only a middle school level education?” Steve raised his eyebrows. Clint winked. “I’m smarter than I look.” Steve snorted in amusement and looked at the floor again.

“Steve.” Their eyes met. “I do this because not everyone can and nobody should have to. And I think that’s why you do it, too.” 

Steve smiled without humor. “I think you’re the first person to call me by my first name in four days.”

Clint’s heart broke a little. 

“I’m always Captain America or just Cap, you know.” He grimaced. “I guess I kind of lose myself sometimes,” his voice was so quiet Clint could barely hear him. 

Clint tried to recall any interaction he’d witnessed between Steve and the others these past few days and came to the conclusion that he was right. 

Clint huffed a sigh. The room was beginning to lighten. The sun was coming up. He hesitated before he spoke.

“Has this happened before?” he asked nodding at the vomit still on the floor. 

Steve shook his head. “Sometimes. Not always this bad, though.”

“How often?”

“Usually just when I’m alone with my thoughts for too long.”

Clint hummed in contemplation. Steve yawned. 

“Come on.” Clint got to his feet. “You need sleep.” He held out a hand and hauled Steve to his feet. 

“What about -”

“JARVIS will take care of everything, won’t you JARVIS?”

“Of course, Agent Barton,” the AI replied. 

Steve shook his head in wonder. “I’m still not used to him.”

“You’ll warm up to him eventually. Now go get some sleep.”

Steve held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’m going.” He held out his hand. Clint shook it. “Thank you for… whatever that was earlier.”

Clint shrugged. “No problem. I’ll stay here and oversee the cleanup.”

Steve took a few steps toward the elevator. 

“Oh, and Steve,” Clint called deliberately using his first name. The captain turned to look at him. “You come talk to me anytime you need to, okay? I’m game for any topic.” He tried to put as much sincerity as he could into his words. Maybe, if he could distract him from his own thoughts a little bit, he could decrease his chances of having another attack like this one. 

Steve smiled. “Thank you.” He turned and let the elevator take him to his room. 

Clint looked around for a towel to clean up the mess. It would give him something to do before everyone else got up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve has got to have some issues guys. I mean, he's been through a lot. I'd be tired of all of it if I were him. Thankfully Hawkeye is there to clean up his vomit. :)
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments. I love reading them. :)


	4. Thor

Clint stared at the black dots speckling the ceiling tiles. 

He hated hospitals. 

Well, maybe it was just that every time he was in a hospital he had hurt himself. Maybe the pain he suffered at a hospital created some kind of Pavlovian effect on his psyche to where the mere sight of a stethoscope set his teeth on edge.

He stared up a the ceiling some more. 

No. He just really hated hospitals.

He had had another unlucky incident at a raid on a Hydra base where he’d gotten shot a couple of times. The one in his leg had been clean but the one on his abdomen had grazed his liver. Kind of a shit grouping if you asked Clint. It bothered him when the people shooting him weren’t good at it. Of course, if they were, he’d be dead so there was that. It’s just that he had a certain respect for these things. 

The doctors had stitched him up and he was fine but, as always, they made him stay in bed. Natasha had visited earlier and brought him some books and Steve and Tony had kept him company individually for a while, but now he was just bored. 

He shifted uncomfortably. His side burned, but that was purposeful. Clint had the lowest amount of pain killers they’d allow. He’d once had an assassin try and kill him while he was drugged out of his mind while in recovery at a hospital. Clint had learned to live with a little bit of pain after that. 

He looked over to his bedside table and browsed the titles Natasha had lent him. Clint was usually more of a science fiction guy but he reached over to pick up  _ The Hobbit. _ He’d read it before and it remained one of his favorites. He opened the book and hoped it would distract him from the painful boredom that was surviving a bullet wound. He had just turned onto the third page when he heard a knock at the door. 

Clint put the book down and called for whoever it was to enter. The door opened minimally just enough to allow Thor to poke his head out from behind it. Clint kept his face neutral even though he was immensely surprised by his presence. It wasn’t that he and Thor weren’t on friendly terms, it was just that that’s all they were. They didn’t talk much, all of their interaction was in the middle of a group setting or in a combat situation. And even then their techniques differed. Thor was about as far as one could get from a spy and he fought like it. Clint just didn’t think they had a whole lot in common. It didn’t help that his adopted brother brainwashed him and killed one of his best friends. It had put a damper on their relationship, to say the least. Which was why Clint was very surprised to see him in his current situation.

“Hey,” he said anyway. 

Thor took that as his cue to enter the room. He closed the door softly and turned to the bedridden archer.

“Hello.” His mouth formed an awkward line. Clint found himself mirroring the expression. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Clint asked after a few moments of silence. 

Thor clapped his hands together. “Ah, yes. I was just coming by to check on you. Make sure everything is in order.” He looked around the room. “Is everything . . . in order?” 

Clint’s eyebrows came together in apprehension. Something was clearly wrong with the thunder god. His eyes kept darting around the room, he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and his fingers were fidgeting with the seams of his clothes. He’d never seen him fidget before. 

“Everything’s great,” Clint said narrowing his eyes, suspicion creeping into his voice. “You know, for being shot and all, it’s just peachy.”

Thor’s eyes widened and he looked Clint over like he’d forgotten why he was there. “Right.” He swallowed. “You got shot.”

He stood there uncomfortably.

“Yup.” Clint was starting to get freaked out. What was he doing here? “Would you like to sit down?” Clint gestured to the chair by his bed, then immediately regretted it.  _ Why did I say that? _

“Thank you.”

Clint inwardly groaned as Thor moved to take a seat. He didn’t have the patience for this right now. He just wanted to go home to the Tower, eat some pizza, and watch Lord of the Rings, not deal with whatever was bothering this weird alien guy while he was dressed in a hospital gown. 

Better to just get it over with. 

“Is everything okay with you, Thor? You’re acting a little odd.”

Thor shifted in his seat. 

“Well, Natasha has assured me that your wounds are not of the fatal nature,” he began hurriedly. “But she does tell me that you’ve had several close calls.”

“Yeah,” Clint assented.

“Actually she said you’ve almost died several times.”

“Yeah,” he said again. “Technically I’ve died twice, but I was revived very quickly.”

“Oh,” Thor said and laughed nervously. “I didn’t know that. You mortals are all so fragile” He rubbed his hands on his thighs. “You have experienced quite a lot of fatal happenings then.”

Clint shrugged. “Yeah well, comes with the job. Assassins kind of deal explicitly in ‘fatal happenings.’” Thor frowned. “But I mean, who on this team hasn’t. I guess Bruce doesn’t really go out of his way. But look at you. You’re a god. I bet you’ve seen some almighty smiting in your days.”

“Yes,” Thor said weakly. “I suppose I have.”

Clint realized too late that that had been the wrong thing to say. Thor’s eyes began to water and his chin quivered insensibly. Clint shifted in the bed to lean towards the other man, wincing as he disturbed his side. 

“Hey,” Clint said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Thor shook his head. “It is not your fault. I just recently lost my mother and my brother. They were killed by dark elves.” He wiped a tear from his cheek. “I am not quite used to the grief.”

Clint was taken aback. Of all the things he could have said, that was never what he would’ve predicted. Thor hadn’t said anything about his family dying. He’d appeared just the same as always. Clint wondered when it had happened. He was a god after all. He had been alive for a very long time so his ‘recently’ could be anywhere from one week to a hundred years. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Clint said lamely. He didn’t know him that well, okay? “Were you and your mother close?”

Thor sniffed. “She was certainly less distant than my father.” His smile was watery. He shrugged nonchalantly but his knuckles were white as he gripped the armrest of the chair. “I was too late to save my mother. My brother-”

“The one that brainwashed me and killed my friends?”

Thor sighed. “Yes, that one.” He stared at the ground. 

Clint’s jaw clenched and he turned to focus on his heart monitor, daring it to change.

“He died defending Jane and me,” Thor said quietly.

A muscle in Clint’s jaw twitched.  _ That seems out of character. _

Thor inhaled forcefully, his shoulders straightening as if he was drawing strength from the air. Still, when he spoke, his voice shook in a trembling timbre. “How do you do it?”

Clint tore his eyes away from his vitals to pierce him with a questioning gaze.

Thor’s face reddened to match his eyes. “How do you deal with it all? I know you have killed people. I have as well. I used to take great pride in my victories in battle. But… until quite recently I never had to experience loss like this.”

Clint thought about the losses he’d experienced in his lifetime. How many people had he seen die? He’d used to keep count but Natasha said that that was unhealthy. He’d hurt a lot of people in his life. Early teachers, his brother, friends turned enemies, Coulson, the things he did in his dreams… He heard the soft pulse of the heart monitor tick up slightly and took a slow breath.

“I guess I’m just used to it,” he said after a while. 

Thor looked dismayed. 

Clint took pity on him. Clearly, the thunder god was upset. “Look.” He could at least try and give Thor some advice, even if he himself had trouble following it sometimes. “Here’s what I can tell you. It’s important to remember people.”

Thor’s shoulders slumped.

“But don’t let their memory overwhelm you. Sometimes, it’s okay to distract yourself. Take up a hobby, like, I don’t know. Hiking? Ice fishing?” Clint glanced around the room. He picked the book up off of his lap. “Reading?”

Thor’s eyebrows raised. Reading had at least piqued his interest. Clint ran his thumb over the battered spine of the book. It wasn’t a bad hobby to get into. Lots of room for escapism, if that’s what one needed. It’s why he got into reading. Even since he was little. He remembered, whenever things got bad, he’d hide in his closet with a flashlight and turn the pages until his imagination would take him far away. His mom would read to him sometimes; she’d come into his room after his dad punched a hole through the wall or used him or Barney instead. She’d dry his tears and pick up a book and she’d read out loud until they both drifted off. 

Clint glanced back to Thor. He was trying to read the title in Clint’s hands. The archer internally shrugged.  _ What the hell. It was worth a shot.  _ He opened the book back to page one. With one more quick glance to the thunder god, he began to read. 

“‘ _ In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…’” _ Clint started out a little shakily. He had been a performer in a circus of course but he wasn’t necessarily skilled in interpreting the literary arts. When he flipped the first page he risked a glance at Thor to see how he was taking it. The thunder god had leaned back in his chair and was staring at the wall thoughtfully. He wasn’t sneering in disgust so Clint decided to press on. When he had gotten to the third page he looked up to see that Thor had closed his eyes entirely.  _ That wasn’t a bad sign.  _

He was nearing the end of the chapter when his own eyes began to droop. He risked one last glance at Thor. It looked as if he had been tired as well. 

The last thing that he thought of before drifting off was how grateful he was to his mom for reading to him all those years ago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a really hard time writing for Thor, guys. So I apologize in advance if this isn't quite right. I kind of tried to go for a Thor: Ragnorok characterization because I think that's what a lot of people relate to most. At least I do. 
> 
> We got a little more of Clint PTSD in this too, hurray!
> 
> I made some stuff up for Clint's backstory cause the films didn't do anything so... 
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments. I love reading them. :)


End file.
